1. 

Strapped in chair, my body clings to silver wings.

We lurch to air, and the world's a thing that's sinking there.

A scatter of houses like rolled dice:

Some beetling cars like clockwork mice:

A griping fear, with tingling hair.

2. 

Through the cloud, the skies expand to a nomansland.

Beset with doubt that I cannot stand, I groan aloud.

There's my life, with its eyesight blank,

pirouetting on the pirate's plank,

pushed by shadow with a creeping shroud.

3. 

Are we aware of what survives from all our lives?

Who might care, or might reply from way out there?

Are all to live, or all to die?

And in either case, I wonder why?

(I whisper this to the empty air.)

4. 

From the eagles' throne we circle down over field and town.

The engines drone till we touch the ground: then a roaring tone.

The flurry of stopping, and the tension ceases:

living returns, though in little pieces:

while fear lies buried where I lay this stone.